Page 125 of Impenitent Claim

The beater? I planned to haul him in the trunk back to Chicago, where I would have the Mad Doctor help me make his final days—no, weeks—a living hell. No one laid a finger on my siren, let alone hurt her, bruising her face, and lived.

I paused, considering what I knew of the inner dynamics of the Rinaldi Mafia. “Don Paolo,” I mused, rubbing my chin on the back of my hand.

The don grunted. “Yes?”

“If one of your men planned a coup—”

Outraged cries burst from the lackeys, but the don lifted his hand to silence them.

“If one of your men planned a coup,” I repeated, “would they be followed?”

“Are you asking if they would succeed in holding the position?” he inferred, restating my query better than I had.

My chin dipped in a nod.

“They would be hunted down and irradicated. Loyal men won’t follow a traitor.”

Traitors would constantly be seeking to slaughter any threat because every good man would be a threat.

And suddenly I knew where the boys were.

With hurried steps, I walked out of the Scorso compound without another word. The guards let me pass, not that they could do much handcuffed to their posts.

***

The sound of a blunt object impaling flesh was a distinct squelch-squelch. Anger at the source mixed with the fear that I was too late. From how much liquid accompanied the steadily pounding stabs, the victim was bleeding out.

I’ll make the shit stain pay!

That resolve was the only thing that kept my finger from squeezing the trigger as I burst into the unfinished basement of the foreclosed house.

The scene before me was straight out of a grotesque film. But this was no horror film. Stained water pooled in places on the floor where it wasn’t high enough to continue draining into the hole in the cement. An exam table with restraints stood empty in the center of the room. The overhead bulbs buzzed and fizzed with barely enough power to banish the shadows lurking around the edges and between the larger pieces of torture equipment.

Because that was what this was: a madman’s sanctuary.

Except…the vile soul would never hurt another being.

Alonzo crouched over the corpse, bloody rail spike suspended in the air. Drops of Cosimo’s blood fell in a steady patter over the body.

“Elijah?” the lad croaked.

“It’s me,” I breathed.He survived.“I think you got him, bud.”

Slowly Alonzo looked down. A heartbeat passed before Alonzo sank the piece of metal into Cosimo’s chest, burying it to the hilt. The lad rose, wiping his hands. He made to take a step forward but stumbled.

I darted forward, sliding my pistol into the waistband of my pants, and caught the kid just in time. “Easy now.”

“I’m fine,” he rasped, shoving me away.

I grunted. “I can’t let anything happen to you.”

“Why?” he scoffed. “What did my father promise you?”

A rough laugh barked from my chest. “Nothing. I don’t work for him.”And I’m going to kill him, the first chance I get.

“Don’t you?” Whatever burst of adrenaline Alonzo had was fast ebbing away. He struggled to move. I shifted the way I held him, taking more of his slight weight.

“No,” I growled.

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